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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120256">Improv Piecing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_bliss/pseuds/nameless_bliss'>nameless_bliss</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(basically kind of sort of), Affection, Affection as a Concept, Affection is like fabric just go with it, Canon Compliant, David Rose Deserves Nice Things, Fabric as a Metaphor, Feelings are complicated and David has a lot of them, Introspection, It's all a metaphor, M/M, Minor Background Relationships, Multi, POV David Rose, Present Tense, features no real fabric or quilting - sorry, fluff with a touch of angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:09:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,240</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_bliss/pseuds/nameless_bliss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>To him, it’s like fabric. He’s not sure that makes sense, but that’s how it feels. It doesn’t come to him as one big, normal thing. It comes to him as scraps of fabric. Adelina compliments him on his report card, and that’s a scrap. Mom brushes his hair off of his forehead, and that’s a scrap. Dad buys him a tie so they’ll match at the Christmas party this year, a scrap. Alexis hides behind him when the paparazzi get too close on the street, scrap. <br/>Problem is: he doesn’t know what to do with them.</p><p>Affection is tricky. And David was never taught how to sew.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>David Rose/OCs (mentioned), Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Sebastien Raine/David Rose (mentioned)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>205</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Improv Piecing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Improv Piecing: The act of creating a quilt without a pattern.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Affection is tricky. And David was never taught how to sew.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t seem like it should be tricky. When he takes the time to look around, he can’t see anyone else having trouble with it. Alexis climbs into Adelina’s lap—shoving aside whatever Adelina was trying to work on—and demands a kiss on her forehead and a story about a beautiful princess. Adelina braids her hair, and tells her how smart she is (is she, though?), and neither of them look like they think it’s difficult. Dad kisses mom, all the time, <em> way </em> too often. She touches his shoulders. His voice gets softer when he talks to her. She gets more musical. They don’t say they love each other, but they say other things—“My dear husband”, “My radiant wife”—and David is pretty sure that counts. They don’t have any problems with it. Everywhere David looks, everyone seems to just <em> get </em>it. Small, and easy, and enough. More than enough.</p><p>To him, it’s like fabric. He’s not sure that makes sense, but that’s how it feels. It doesn’t come to him as one big, normal <em> thing. </em>It comes to him as scraps of fabric. Adelina compliments him on his report card, and that’s a scrap. Mom brushes his hair off of his forehead, and that’s a scrap. Dad buys him a tie so they’ll match at the Christmas party this year, a scrap. Alexis hides behind him when the paparazzi get too close on the street, scrap. </p><p>Problem is: he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s got all these little scraps in a little pile, but what do they <em>do? </em>What is it for? Everybody else seems to know; they give away their own scraps like they aren’t <em>scraps, </em>like they’re enough to be useful, like they have a function. But David can’t give any of them away. What if he doesn’t get them back? What if he runs out? He doesn’t know what to do with them when he has them, but he knows he couldn't bear not having <em>any, </em>either. That’d be so much worse. </p><p>Eventually, he tries piecing them together. Mom approves an outfit he chose without making any changes <em> and </em>puts her hand on the side of his face, and those two things should fit. He should be able to take the two scraps and combine them into something bigger. And maybe if it’s bigger, he’ll know what to do with it. It’ll be something useful. </p><p>And it kinda works. He lays the scraps next to each other, and yeah, it looks nicer like that. It looks almost like it’s… something. It looks like it could be something. </p><p>Dad refers to him as “My boy” during an interview, and David lays that scrap next to the others. They don’t match, but that’s still okay. Adelina kisses him goodnight even though he has a cold, and that looks nice next to the others, too (her scraps are different; they’re softer, and a little bigger). After a while, it starts to come together. Like a quilt. It’s not anywhere big enough to be a real quilt, but maybe it could be, someday. </p><p>Or it could be if David stopped taking from it, anyway. But he lets Alexis sleep with him during a thunderstorm, and he tells Mom that her favorite Balenciaga scarf goes well with that wig even though it does <em> not, </em>and those are scraps that he’s giving away. He listens to Dad talk about his golf game without rolling his eyes, and that leaves a big, ugly hole in the quilt, and he doesn’t have anything else to patch it up with. </p><p>Quilting, David learns, requires strategy. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Dating makes it so much better, and so much worse. </p><p>When a girl pulls him behind the ice sculpture of Cupid at Moira’s Valentine’s party and kisses him for the first time, it’s a scrap. She doesn’t know him, he doesn’t even know her name, and he still gets a little scrap from her. She’s not family, she’s not Adelina, she’s not even a friend, and David can get this from her. Which means that David can get this from <em> anyone. </em>Which kinda blows his mind. </p><p>Unsurprisingly, he gets greedy about it real fucking quick. </p><p>Sex is its own kind of scrap. And no matter how many different ways he tries it, the scraps are always basically the same. But at least there are a lot of them, and they’re easy to find. And the best part is that he doesn’t have to give anything away, if he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to be afraid of losing anything. If he wants to, he can just take. And take. And <em> take.  </em></p><p>Romance, however.</p><p>It’s so easy to give everything away. The first time Jason’s hand brushes his at the one bar that never cards them, David laces their fingers together, and it’s so good that he lets himself think he’ll never have to let go. He wants to give. He gives, and gives, and <em> gives— </em>until Jason pulls his hand away and says David’s palm is sweaty. Jason wipes his hand on David’s sleeve, and David makes himself laugh. </p><p>He sits through Tabitha’s performance art final even though all the high-powered fans mess up his hair and it’s <em> freezing </em> and she pours so much milk that it gets on David’s shoes and they are brand new Rick Owens god<em>dammit, </em> but he stays for the whole goddamn thing just to be supportive, and that feels like a lot, it feels like it’s a whole fucking <em> yard </em>of high-quality fabric that he’s giving away. And when it’s done, she says “Aw, thanks for coming!” and moves to the next person, and it’s barely even a scrap. The fabric feels cheap. </p><p>He lets Sebastien photograph him, and the metaphor gets even messier than usual. Because he’s giving up quite a bit of intangible ‘fabric’ and also quite a bit of very <em> literal </em> fabric as his shirt falls to the floor, then his jeans, then his briefs, then the sheets. But Sebastien tells him he’s beautiful, he’s artwork, he’s an <em> experience, </em>he defies even Sebastien’s most convoluted poetry, and David can take plenty from that. Sebastien gives David enough to cover him up even as he bares himself. It feels symbiotic. It feels nice. </p><p>Three weeks later, Sebastien tells him the photos didn’t turn out after all, that David looked conventional, like a department store mannequin, that the photos are too cheap to be displayed alongside his ‘<em>real </em>art’ (David never agreed to have the photos displayed in the first place, so). This time, David is fully-clothed when Sebastien leaves him bare. </p><p>God, even the fucking birthday clown manages to get too much from him, like there’s one of those trick scarves in David’s mouth that he just keeps pulling and pulling and pulling and pulling, taking so much more than should be possible, more than David can give up, more than he could have held in the first place. That one stings the most, because, <em>seriously?  </em></p><p>It’s so easy to give. David’s spent most of his life trying to craft himself a modest little quilt, but somehow, it’s so easy to throw the whole thing at the first person who looks like they’ll catch it. They never do. They take it, and they look at it for a bit, and they leave it. They drop it on the ground. It gets muddy, it gets stepped on, it frays. There’s never as much left at the end as there was at the beginning. </p><p>It’s too much. He gives away too much. He gives away more than anyone wants to take from him. He’s “clingy”. He “comes on too strong”. He’s “taking this too seriously, what did you think we were doing, here?” He’s “honestly, just. A bit much.” </p><p>He learns to keep his scraps to himself.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>He hears about the Love Languages when he’s in his twenties, and that seems like it should help. It doesn’t.</p><p>Because he looks at all of them and, yeah, <em> obviously, </em> he wouldn’t kick any of them out of bed. Who would? He tries doing the stupid quiz and he only gets three questions in before the choices become so impossible that he almost throws his laptop against the wall. ‘It’s more meaningful to me when…’ and the answer is fucking both, either, anything, goddamn <em> anything, </em> it’s all just fabric, why’s he supposed to care whether it’s red or blue or silk or chiffon when it’s <em> there, </em> it’s something, it’s something he rarely gets and it’s never enough so it’s not like he’s gonna have the audacity to be <em> picky.  </em></p><p>The next day, he tries taking the quiz again. He gets Physical Touch.</p><p>A week later, he takes the quiz again. He gets Words of Affirmation. </p><p>A week later, he takes the quiz again. He gets Quality Time. </p><p>A year later, he takes the quiz a dozen times in one afternoon. He gets a different answer every time—which is impressive, since there are only five options. </p><p>He doesn’t take the quiz again. He doesn’t give a fuck what his love language is. It doesn’t matter when he’s sitting here with his stash of scraps, and no one’s trying to talk to him, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>With Stevie, it almost makes sense.</p><p>Her scraps look like his. They’re frayed at the edges. They’ve been sewn together, torn apart, rearranged, ripped, mended, ironed, hoarded. They’re small. They’re familiar. </p><p>The first time, it’s an accident. They’re comfortably drunk, passing a bottle of truly <em> disgusting </em> tequila between them. David’s not really paying attention to the TV, but something happens that makes Stevie start laughing, and she <em> snorts.  </em></p><p>“Oh. My <em> god,</em>” David looks at her, eyes wide as saucers, mouth dropped open in his sharkiest grin. “Are you fucking shitting me? Was that real?”</p><p>Stevie tries to grimace, but she’s still got giggles. “Fuck off.”</p><p>David can barely breathe. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her smile, much less laugh, much less snort like an unruly schoolchild, and it’s the most goddamn fucking adorable thing he’s ever heard in his entire life. </p><p>“That was the most goddamn fucking disgusting thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” he says. And he doesn’t mean for it to be a scrap, but it… is. And he gave it to her, without thinking.</p><p>She punches his arm, hard enough to knock him over. “I fucking hate you.” And David’s not sure if she means that to be a scrap, but he takes it. </p><p>And it’s… easy. </p><p>It looks like his. It feels like his. It’s the same size and shape. He gave, and he got. And he feels something fall into place. </p><p>It starts off simple. No matter how much they both want to deny it, they’re uncannily similar, and that means that they’re both similarly unused to this. They’re both hesitant. They both keep their scraps close, trying to sew their little quilts. Sometimes it’s painfully clear that neither of them know what the fuck they’re doing. There’s snark, which works, and sex, which works until it doesn’t, and there are <em> feelings, </em>which—well. David doesn’t know whether that goes the way it’s supposed to or not. He’s never successfully had a feeling, so he doesn’t know what success looks like. </p><p>But eventually, it starts to make sense. They have their scraps, and sometimes, they share them. David helps Stevie when her Aunt dies. Stevie listens to David word-vomit about the store he’s sort of maybe once in a while kinda possibly thinking about. When they camp out in his room to get high and watch bad TV, she sits on his bed with him, pressed together from shoulder to shin. Give, and take. </p><p>And it’s easy. He knows he can give something away, and he’ll get the same back. He won’t be shorted, he won’t give out too much and be left with holes, he won’t have to ask for more because suddenly there’s nothing left. He can give to Stevie, and he knows she’ll give him just as much. It’s safe. </p><p>And the funny thing about that kind of safety is that it makes things feel possible. David starts giving away more pieces, more frequently. He gives away bigger pieces, ones that matter, ones where he can really <em> feel </em>when they’re gone. And every time, she’s still there, giving back. </p><p>Maybe the scraps are still frayed, but David is finally understanding how to sew. He keeps his pieces, and he puts them together. And after a while, David learns how to make a real pattern, how to line up different sizes and fabrics and shapes in a way that actually makes sense. Moira wants to have breakfast with him. Johnny compliments him in front of Roland, of all people. Alexis picks one of her stupid fights like they’re kids, tearing the room to shreds while she tries to steal her jar of mask back from him, throwing pillows and shouting until Mom <em> shrieks </em>through the wall for them to control themselves, and they dissolve into disgusting laughter. </p><p>And all of those pieces fit together. Even though he’s been giving away more and more lately, he always has a surprisingly decent pile left. He has enough to sew together. It’s messy, it’s <em> obviously </em>amateur, but it’s… something. </p><p>Some days, it’s almost enough. He can take out his little quilt and lay underneath it, and it almost kind of covers him. Maybe his feet stick out. Maybe it’s only big enough to wrap around his shoulders. Some days, maybe it’s barely more than a handkerchief. He’s never figured out how to contort himself so it covers all of him. It’s never big enough to hide him and keep him warm like he’s always wanted. But it’s something. And it’s growing. And for once, he feels confident that it’ll get there, eventually. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Patrick Brewer throws an entire fucking blanket at him.</p><p>David convinces himself it’s a fluke, at first. Patrick is just one of those people, he’s pleasant and cheerful and an <em>extrovert </em>and all of that social peppiness can sometimes <em>feel </em>like a gargantuan piece of fabric, but. But it’s not, really. It’s not. It can’t be. So obviously, it’s a fluke.</p><p>It keeps happening. </p><p>And, like, fine. So Patrick is nice, so he’s decent, so he laughs and teases, he insults David but always leaves him a little compliment afterward like a chaser. Logically, yes, that could all piece together to make an unreasonably large piece of fabric to drape over David like fine linen. But fine linen is not easy to come by. If Patrick is gonna give him… all of this, it should be a one-time thing. One big sheet of niceness, and then he has to… go back to… the loom, or something (David’s never had to get this far into the metaphor before. It gets messy under scrutiny). </p><p>But it happens again. And again. And again. New day, new blanket. David keeps waiting for him to run out, but apparently the man he’s dating is a goddamn Joann Fabrics. It’s not an offer, and David doesn’t have to ask for it, or decide to take it. It’s dumped on him without a thought, tossed in his face with wild abandon. So the ‘take’ part of the equation is well and thoroughly covered. </p><p>It’s the ‘give’ that’s complicated. David wants it, he’s never wanted it this badly before, to dig out every scrap he’s ever stashed and throw it at this button-faced asshole. But he just… he’s not… </p><p>He’s tried this before. And he knows how it goes. The thought of getting this gorgeous blanket—soft, and king-sized, and flawless, and so easy to crawl underneath—and giving back one of his scraps in return…</p><p>He’s done this too many times, with much worse people. He’s offered what he has, and it hasn’t been good enough. It’s not like it’s ever fun to get the perfunctory ‘I Don’t Want These’ from <em> anyone, </em> but this is different. It’s one thing to get that kind of rejection from someone like Jared Leto who wasn’t giving back anything of value anyway. It’s something else entirely to face that rejection from someone like Patrick. Someone who’s giving so much like it’s not even hard, like he <em> likes </em>doing it. David doesn’t think he could survive letting Patrick see the scraps he has to offer. </p><p>And there’s still the little voice in his head. Voice<em>s, </em>plural. Years and decades and a lifetime of them, compiled and blended together like a choir. Clingy. Needy. High-maintenance. Attention whore. A bit much. A bit too much. Too much. There are already enough voices in the mix; he can’t handle adding Patrick’s, too. </p><p>So he decides to keep his scraps to himself. </p><p>Patrick makes a drink run to the Cafe. David starts to write down his coffee order. “Don’t worry,” Patrick says with his smug little smile, “I remember it.” </p><p>David obviously can’t have that. So when he takes a sip of the perfect, <em> perfect </em>macchiato, he wrinkles his nose. “Would we call that a ‘touch’ of cocoa powder?”</p><p>Patrick smirks. “No, we’d call that a ‘sprinkle’, because that’s what it is. Don’t test me.”</p><p>David could smile, he could say ‘thank you’, he could say ‘it’s fine’, ‘it’s perfect’, ‘no one’s ever bothered, before’. </p><p>He tosses his head. “It’ll have to do.”</p><p>When he gets to the store the next day, there’s a coffee cup waiting on the counter. And next to it, a little canister of cocoa powder. </p><p>David steps up his game after that—or steps it down, technically. Steps up the game of stepping down the affection, the too-muchness, the… him. Some of it is simple enough. He rearranges his closet, tucking anything with hearts or ‘love’ just slightly out of reach, in case they send the wrong message. When Patrick asks him to stay over for the third night in a row, David pretends he has plans with Alexis. Simple. Easy. </p><p>Some of it is a bit more complicated. Patrick texts him, and David’s heart gives an embarrassing little pitter-patter every time the name pops up on his screen. So he waits. Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes upwards of an hour. It’s very Petty Drama of him, but still, it feels safer. When they walk together from the Cafe to the store, or from the car to the restaurant, or from Ray’s to the motel, David fiddles with his rings. Sometimes he pretends to be busy on his phone. Whatever it takes to keep his hands occupied, to keep himself from reaching for Patrick every fucking chance he gets. </p><p>Patrick walks him home after work. They linger on the sidewalk, whispering, laughing, kissing (only after making sure the curtains on rooms 6 and 7 are <em> thoroughly </em>drawn). When they finally say goodnight, Patrick hugs him. His unfairly beefy forearms are firm around David’s back. His compact little frame fits so perfectly in David’s arms. Patrick stays there, his face pressed close, breathing against David’s neck. And David counts. </p><p>5 seconds.</p><p>10 seconds.</p><p>13… </p><p>14… </p><p>15… </p><p>15 and a half— </p><p>Okay. That’s too long. </p><p>David pulls himself away. Patrick’s hands linger in the crooks of David’s elbows. He smiles. David makes himself step back. He doesn’t like it, but it’s… it’s the right choice. It’s safer. This is working, and he needs it to keep working. He can do this. He can make this work. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>So, it actually works a little too well. </p><p>It’s maybe a few weeks in—Okay, it’s a little over vaguely three weeks in—Okay, it’s exactly two days away from being one month in (not that it matters, not like they’re doing monthiversaries). And something is up with Patrick. </p><p>Something in his shoulders, tense and uncomfortable. He’s not teasing like he’s supposed to—David even leaves him a few obvious setups that he just skates right past. He hasn’t said anything, and David doesn’t wanna <em> pry, </em>but. </p><p>“Everything okay?” he asks, trying so hard to be casual that it ends up sounding comically forced. </p><p>Patrick smiles as he restocks the totes. “Yeah, fine.”</p><p>David presses his lips together. “Okay, but… really?”</p><p>Patrick looks up at him from behind the cash. There’s an expression on his face that David doesn’t recognize, and that can’t be good. </p><p>Then Patrick sighs, and runs a hand across his mouth. “Okay.” He goes to the door, <em> locks </em> it, and flips the sign, and that can’t be good at all holy fuck this is not good. This is it, the hammer is about to drop, and David always knew it would but that doesn’t mean he wants it to happen <em> now, </em>like this, in the middle of the work day, he’s not ready, he thought he’d see it coming, he thought he’d get to prepare himself. He doesn’t want this.</p><p>Patrick keeps his back turned for a moment, hands shoved in his pockets as deep as they can go. </p><p>He takes a loud, preparatory breath, and turns around. “You’d tell me if you weren’t into this, right?”</p><p>David blinks. “Into what?”</p><p>“Into…” Patrick shrugs, “this. Us.” His tongue darts out across his lower lip. “Me.”</p><p>David keeps blinking. “Wh—” He shakes his head. “What do you mean?”</p><p>Patrick keeps his shoulders up by his ears. He leans back against the door. He looks so uncomfortable it’s almost painful. “I just—I don’t know. Sometimes it seems like you don’t—” he lets out his breath. “I know I’ve been a little… a little over-eager, about this. And I know it’s not fair of me to assume what you’re feeling; not everyone likes this much—I know I can be intense, and that’s not what everyone wants in a relationship, and that’s fine. But.” He shifts from foot to foot. “I guess I just want to check whether it’s just that you don’t like… all of that, or. If you don’t like me.” </p><p>David— </p><p>“I—”</p><p>His jaw flaps a few times. He looks over his shoulder in case there are answers at the back of the store, a cue card that might explain what the <em> fuck </em>he’s hearing. </p><p>“You can tell me, David,” Patrick says, and his voice is so goddamn gentle, sad but understanding, like he’s already resigned himself to whatever he thinks is happening here. “If this isn’t working, I’d honestly rather you tell me now instead of drawing it out. I just… I don’t want to mess this up. So, if you don’t like—”</p><p>“I like you so much it’s stupid,” David blurts. But— </p><p>Fuck.</p><p>David’s mouth snaps closed with an audible click.</p><p>After a moment of thick silence, Patrick’s lips twitch up. “Okay.”</p><p><em> Fuck. </em>David shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”</p><p>“So you <em> don’t </em>like me?” Patrick asks, but that mournful hesitation is already vanishing, and he’s creeping towards being his jackass self again. </p><p>David pulls his shoulders back. He knows when Patrick is trying to get a rise out of him, and he will not be giving him the satisfaction today, thanks so much. “I like you a perfectly normal amount,” he says with great dignity. </p><p>“Well that’s very flattering.” Patrick’s smile softens. “Then, it is the… other stuff? That you don’t like? Because that’s fine; I can dial it back. I know I can be kinda… smothering, when I’m not careful. I know that it—that I can be too much, sometimes.”</p><p>David’s hands start moving, making odd circles in the air. “That’s not—that’s not it. That’s not <em> at all </em>it. That’s nowhere near… You’ve never even been in the vicinity of too much.”</p><p>Patrick chokes on a laugh. “Good to know. It just seems like you’re not into it, I guess? Maybe I’m misinterpreting, and I shouldn’t assume. But it feels like you don’t enjoy it when I do the more—the overly-affectionate stuff.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m pretending not to like it because <em> I </em>am too much, and I don’t want you to figure that out yet!”</p><p>Patrick narrows his eyes, but it doesn’t hide an infuriating hint of a smile on his lips. “So, lemme see if I have this right: You’re worried that I’ll think it’s ‘too much’ if you do… the exact same things I’m already doing?”</p><p>David shakes his head dismissively. “It’s different when you do it.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“It—” David frowns. “It just… is. It’s nice when you do it. If I do it, it’s annoying.”</p><p>“And what makes you think that?”</p><p>“I <em> know </em> that,” David retorts. “Literally every single one of my exes has <em> told </em>me that. It’s the popular consensus.”</p><p>“Huh.” Patrick takes a step closer, takes his hands out of his pockets. “I understand what you’re saying, David. But I think you’re forgetting one important thing.”</p><p>David takes a step back, bracing himself. “What’s that?”</p><p>Patrick smiles. “I’m not one of your exes.”</p><p>A soft, weak “Oh,” falls out of David’s mouth before he can stop it. He clears his throat. “I suppose that’s… true.”</p><p>Patrick takes a few more steps, closing the distance between them. “David, do you like when I’m affectionate with you?”</p><p>David swallows. “Yes.”</p><p>Patrick’s smile tucks down, dimpling his cheeks. “Okay. For the record: I like it, too. And I like that you like it. You can like it as much as you want. I promise you won’t overdo it.” He rests his hands on David’s hips. “Because, I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but. I like you.” His smile twists into a smirk. “Like, a stupid amount.”</p><p>“Okay,” David rolls his eyes, refusing to be charmed by such mockery. “We don’t need to get <em> that </em> junior high about it. I think you’re only allowed to say you <em> ‘like’ </em>someone if you’re thirteen.”</p><p>“Well I can’t speak for you, David. But when <em> I </em>was thirteen, I sure never got to tell a cute boy how much I like him.” Patrick tilts his head. “Indulge me.”</p><p>David presses his lips together. His hands wander to Patrick’s shoulders, thoroughly on instinct, a magnetic pull. “I suppose.” He leans down— </p><p>“Hey,” Patrick tilts away from the attempted kiss, “seriously, though. Do we need to talk more about this? Are we okay?”</p><p>David feels something tighten in his chest, squeezing up, clogging his throat. Because they… discussed it. David said what he needs to say, so that’s fine, it’s enough, and it’s not like there’s a way for him to explain that affection is fabric and Patrick’s blankets are nicer than David’s scraps and he’s still figuring out how to sew a quilt, he’s not gonna say any of that because, like, <em> how? </em> Affection is an abstract concept on its own so it’s not like he can explain it without the metaphor but the metaphor is <em> ridiculous </em>and is not meant to be put to words. </p><p>But that’s fine. He said enough. It’s fine.</p><p>David nods. “Mm-hm. We’re very okay. We’re—we’re good.”</p><p>Patrick smiles, and it’s yet another blanket to add to the pile. He pulls David close. “Good.” </p><p>Patrick kisses like nothing else matters, like there’s nothing else he could possibly want more. He kisses like he’s just invented kissing, every tilt of his face, every brush of his tongue as if it’s the first time anyone has ever thought to do it. </p><p>And sometimes, all David can do is hold on. He keeps his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, and he opens himself to Patrick’s mouth, and he takes what Patrick gives him. Because right now, doing anything else seems like a terrible idea.</p><p>That is, until they’re pulled apart by a relentless pounding on the door. </p><p>Right. It’s still locked. And it’s hard to pretend the ‘Closed’ sign is accurate at 11:00am on a Wednesday, particularly when they’re standing directly inside the door, kissing in full view of—oh dear fucking god—of <em> Roland, </em>undoubtedly here for more goddamn foot cream.  </p><p>Patrick chuckles awkwardly as he wipes his thumb across his lips. “Whoops.” </p><p>Mercifully, he makes no complaint as David disappears into the stockroom to deal with literally anything that is not Roland. Because it’s fine. Patrick is fine, and David is fine. And they’re fine. David just needs a second to calm down, because that whole conversation was… unexpected. But it’s fine, and he has nothing to worry about. They talked, and he said enough, and that’s fine. He doesn’t have to say anything else. He doesn’t have to explain it. </p><p>It’s fine.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>He explains it.</p><p>On Ray’s couch, watching bad reality TV, eating popcorn that Patrick burned—which David reminds him of with every bite. The TV keeps playing, and the popcorn doesn’t get any better, and David explains it. </p><p>He tries to, anyway. It sounds more convoluted with every bit of clarity he tries to add. Every description sounds muddier than the last. It never seems this stupid when it’s in his head. </p><p>When he can’t stand the sound of his voice any longer, he shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth, eyes fixed on the TV.</p><p>“That makes sense,” Patrick says. </p><p>David frowns. “Wheawy?” He asks through the popcorn.</p><p>“Yeah.” Patrick tosses a kernel up and catches it in his mouth (show-off). “I mean, I can’t say I’ve ever thought of it like that before. But, yeah. Intimacy is an exchange; you’re just visualizing it with something more literal. Making it tangible.” He shrugs. “That makes perfect sense.”</p><p>David ponders this as he fights the popcorn down his throat. </p><p>“Have you ever thought about taking up quilting?” Patrick asks, running his hand along David’s thigh. “Like, literal quilting? Actual fabric stuff. Maybe you’d like it.”</p><p>David keeps pondering as he puts his hand over Patrick’s, lacing their fingers together. “Maybe.”</p><p>“Twyla does all sorts of sewing stuff, maybe she could teach you.”</p><p>David rests his head on Patrick’s shoulder. “Maybe,” he repeats. </p><p>David’s free hand is too far away from the popcorn bowl. Patrick holds up a kernel, and David opens his mouth to accept it. Patrick gives him the less-burnt ones. </p><p>“I don’t think it’s like fabric, when I get it from you,” Patrick says a little while later. “It doesn’t feel like a bunch of pieces that come separately. I think your affection is… I think it’s more like knitting.”</p><p>David closes his eyes. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. It’s like… It’s one continuous thing; it’s one feeling that you keep adding to. The affection is the yarn, and you’re always working with it to make something new, and different. Like… a sweater. Like a really nice, comfy sweater, like that one you have with all the—” he wiggles his fingers, “with the fringe.” </p><p>David hums. “I love that sweater.”</p><p>“So do I.”</p><p>David shifts, snuggling himself against Patrick’s side. Patrick presses a kiss to the top of David’s head. David squeezes Patrick’s hand. As David’s breathing starts to even out, Patrick turns down the volume on the TV. David tangles their feet together on the ottoman, trying to move closer, wanting that warmth. Patrick starts to move away, and David mumbles a <em> serious </em>protest— </p><p>Patrick takes the afghan from the back of the couch and lays it over them. He reaches over to tuck it under David’s legs.</p><p>David laughs quietly. “It’s a blanket.”</p><p>“Yep.” Patrick settles back in, taking David’s hand in both his own. “And there’s more where that came from.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This idea has been bouncing around in my brain for quite a while. So this weekend, I set a challenge to get it all put to words before I could doubt myself for the whole 'The One Where Affection is Actually Fabric' thing. I apologize if I've beaten the metaphor to death, but feelings - like affection - are tricky. And sometimes you've just gotta make a quilt. 💜💜💜 </p><p>As always, thank you so much for reading! I'd always love to hear from you, either here or over on my <a href="https://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/641879423505874944">tumblr</a>! Wash your hands, check in with someone you love, and take care of yourselves!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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